


The Damage Has Been Done

by The-Clairvoyant-Rick (MajixTrixx)



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Gen, Gore, Incest, Internal cardiac massage, M/M, Odd dictation, Somewhat explicit sexual content, Surgical situations, emergency surgery, there will be blood - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5734279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajixTrixx/pseuds/The-Clairvoyant-Rick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Morty should be terrified. He should be trembling with fear, begging Rick to find another way or to take him to a hospital but all he can think about is the shrapnel and how good it felt to have Rick's hands inside of him, moving under his flesh, caressing his insides, freeing him from harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I'm trash. I could probably take a class on that statement, prove it as factual mathematically on paper, turn it in to the professor and eventually get a PhD in Human Trashivity.

He realizes, long after everything is said and done, that it was a process. 

 

It begins with Morty getting caught in the crossfire of some intergalactic battle in a different dimension and him taking a fuckton of shrapnel to the torso. It isn't incredibly deep, the shards haven't entered his bloodstream yet so he won't become some Iron Man origin story but the wounds are still bleeding and the metal needs to come out as soon as humanly possible and Rick doesn't even bother taking him to a Galactic hospital because, "W-why would I, Morty? It's just a -- just a flesh wound. I've dealt with -- I've had to deal with much w- _ eerrruuughh _ -orse with less t-t-to work with. Trust your ol' grandpa a little, Morty."

 

So right there in the middle of the empty vacuum of space, inside of a dingy homemade spaceship, Morty lets his grandfather stick him with a syringe full of an unknown liquid and work to take the shrapnel out. And at first, the brunette is incredibly put off by it, more by the idea than anything, but the sight of it all is incredibly unnerving all the same, regardless of whether he can feel it or not. The shiny glimmer of the scalpel in the bright light, the way his skin parts like Christmas wrap caught in the metal jaws of a pair of scissors, the bloom of red against his milky white flesh. It's all overwhelming, making his mind fuzzy with anxiety, but that all disappears the moment he feels Rick's hands inside of him.

 

The unnamed solution he was injected with blocked out his pain receptors, according to Rick, but the teen could still feel what was happening. The slick brushes of Rick's latex clad fingers just beneath the layer of his skin, the tug of wiry muscles clinging to the various shards of shrapnel before finally giving up and releasing them into Rick's possession. the dark intimacy of his grandfather's hands inside of him, occasionally sliding over what Morty can only assume are his organs. It makes something coil inside of him, something hot, demanding to be recognized but lingering fuzzy and out of focus, just past Morty's understanding due to the medication.

 

And for months afterward, Morty refuses to believe that he could actually enjoy being taken apart by his mad alcoholic scientist of a grandfather. He blames it on the anesthesia making his head fuzzy and the sheer oddity of the situation, blames it on hormones and fucked up genes and an entire array of different things but a few weeks later, after being injured on one of their more risky adventures, Morty is forced to face the truth.

 

While skillfully snatching back a gadget meant to search out specifically masked brainwaves from the Gromplomites, one of the nameless insects managed to catch a break, getting a shot off at Morty and catching him right along the length of his spine. The pain is sharp, a burst of white hot agony that leaves the teen's throat clenched, unable to even scream and then nothing.

 

No sense of feeling, no points of pressure, nothing from the waist down and the teen is in shock as his legs fail him and he goes tumbling down to the hard ground, gasping breathlessly for Rick. Lucky for Morty, his Rick actually likes him and the old man comes back for him, swinging the boy over his shoulder in a startling display of strength and running for it, ignoring the shots being fired behind them.

 

As soon as he can catch a moment, Rick has portaled them back home, into the garage and he's in more of a panic than Morty's ever seen him. He's locking the door against any and all forms of intrusion and sweeping his work space clear with one of his arms, destroying an important project that Morty knows he's been working on for at least a month without the slightest hesitation and then Rick is there, in front of him, cradling him to his chest as RIck lifts Morty and carries him to the now available space.

 

And the elder's words are jumbled, almost as if he'd been drinking but Morty hasn't seen him reach for his trusty flask a single time and he can see the adrenaline, the threads of panic as Rick tries to get things set up and Rick is making a point not to look at him and for a moment the teen is confused as to why but then Rick looks at him and just says, "Listen, Morty, I-I know that -- you're not gonna like this kid but I have to -- I gotta fix it and that means I gotta cut you -- gotta cut you open Morty. Like with the shrapnel, Morty, the shrapnel. Y-y-you need to -- you gotta trust me, Mort."

 

And Morty is surprised, because he does. He trusts Rick absolutely, with every and all aspects of his safety, regardless of the fucked up shit that the old man has gotten him into over the years and all Morty can do is nod. Maybe it's just him, but the teen can almost swear that he sees his own surprise mirrored back at him on his grandpa's features but the brunette can't tell, because Rick is gone. Ripping around the garage for supplies like a hurricane confined in a labcoat, ripping things off the shelves, digging through boxes, pulling open cabinets and tossing their contents out without a second thought.

 

It's controlled chaos, a flurry of activity narrated by a mixture of Rick's annoyed mumbling, various swear words, and a collection of stutters that just serves to put the boy deeper at ease, his lids sliding half mast as the familiarity of the situation envelopes him but then Rick is in front of him, flipping him over to lay on his stomach.

 

There's silence between them and Morty want's to ask if it's bad but hesitates, knowing that Rick won't hesitate to tell him the truth, no matter how brutal. But Rick is steady and solid behind him and the teen can feel him setting up, the chill of fresh latex and disinfectant and a layer of remembrance comes over him before Rick's voice draws him back, “This isn't – s'not good, kid. I gotta – gotta cut deep to fix this, Morty, real deep, like down to the bone deep Mort. I-I-I can numb ya a bit, but I can't – but you're gonna feel some of it.”

 

And Morty should be terrified. He should be trembling with fear, begging Rick to find another way or to take him to a hospital but all he can think about is the shrapnel and how good it felt to have Rick's hands inside of him, moving under his flesh, caressing his insides, freeing him from harm. It's overwhelming, all encompassing in its attraction, and Morty can't help but to shiver when he considers feeling it again. The teen hopes that Rick will see it as a sign of fear but despite everything the teen just nods, chancing a glance back at his grandpa, “Just do it, Rick.”

 

And Rick, being the kind of man he is, makes a witty snip about Shia Labeouf and leaving trends in the past before grabbing the scalpel with all the grace and flourish of a long time surgeon before going to work on Morty.

 

It's a strange sensation.

 

It was easier to place the sensations when he was able to see it, blaming the odd pressure on Rick's searching and the slight tugging on the metal shards letting go, but to be all but blind to it was something else entirely. The teen could feel his flesh split open, the sensation of air where it shouldn't be, the chill of something unnatural, but above all, he can feel his grandpa's fingers against his spine.

 

Rick's hands are touching his vertebrae, coming into contact with his most well protected area, bar his brain, and the boy wonders briefly if Rick felt powerful. He wonders if his grandfather could feel the enormity of the situation, wondered how he felt when he saw the red liquid of Morty's life smeared across thin latex gloves. He wondered what his muscles felt like to a man that'd probably killed more people than Morty’s ever met and if he secretly enjoyed the situation nearly as much as his grandson did. 

 

There was shifting, muttered curses and words mumbled to softly for the boy to hear and suddenly Morty is alight with sensation. Feeling returns and though the teen’s pain receptors are all but non-existent, he can feel Rick's probing hands more surely than before. He can feel the invisible twitch along his various muscles as the mad scientist prods at his spinal column, the rush as previously deadened muscles return to life and Morty just wants to writhe. The only thing that could've made it any better is if Rick would've gone in from the front, so the boy could feel him caressing his organs. 

 

“Y-you're doin’ good -- real good Morty, just a few more minutes.”

 

And Morty wants to moan. He wants to beg his grandfather to keep going, to slide his fingers in deeper, to reach under the bone white cage of Morty's ribs and hold the boy's frantically beating heart in his blood slicked grasp. He wanted Rick to caress his spine, to pet him like an animal and speak to him in those soft caring tones that the old man only uses when Morty is in genuine distress. 

 

And then there's pain. 

 

It's intense, deep and demanding attention and Morty gasps in surprise, his toes curling in an attempt to keep control. The thundering of his heart is near deafening, drowning out any and all other sounds, making it impossible for him to be anything but aware of the incision and the pain of his grandpa's probing, the irritation caused by the air and the heavy throbs of agony caused by his frantic heartbeat. 

 

He whines, whimpering and holding back tears, but then Rick is comforting him, whispering gentle words of encouragement in both English and Spanish, he's running one of his hands along Morty’s side, leaving a dark red smear against the boy's milky flesh that neither can be bothered to care about and it's soothing, soothing in a way that Morty has never experienced before. 

 

He wants nothing more than to keep Rick's hands inside of him, to beg to be soothed in a more unorthodox fashion but all too soon Rick is pulling away, and Morty can feel his muscles being placed back where they're supposed to be. The pain has all but faded and Morty can feel the distant tugging as Rick sews him back up. The teen can vaguely hear Rick's reassurance that he won't have a scar and that everything will return to normal but Morty knows that's not true. 

 

He's felt Rick's hands inside him, working on him, fixing him, caressing him with a dark intimacy that Morty can never forget and the boy wonders if he can possibly bring it up to his grandfather, if there's a way to satisfy this new found need born of blood and agony or if the teen will just have to keep getting hurt. 

 

Either way, Morty knows that his darkness has awoken, that it will refuse to be locked away. 

  
Morty knows that the damage has been done. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Morty wished that he had more scars.

 

His grandfather was covered in them, badges of honor from the various scrabbles of his life, some more meaningful than others. Across his aged flesh sat marks of adventure, symbols of dirty fights and hints of torture, acid burns, scorch marks, slices, dices, self brought about surgical scars, each and every one of them a glimpse into the life that the old scientist lived.

But Morty walked alongside him without so much as a mark.

Of course, he had all the normal scars, thin ones brought about by early childhood. A faint line across his eyelid from where the cat got him, a slightly concave knot of scar tissue on his heel from where he stepped on a rather large shard of glass, but all the more significant ones had been healed long before they could ever dream of remaining.

Rick had seen to that himself.

After two shady surgeries, one would've thought that the teen might at least have a mark to show for it, but to the boy's dismay, it was not to be so. There was nothing to indicate that Rick opened him up, nothing to suggest that the mad scientist's hands had ever plucked shrapnel from his chest. Nothing to even hint at the fact that, at one point, he'd been split open all the way from his tailbone to the nape of his neck as Rick attempted to fix his spine.

The incidents remained alive within the memories of the only two people that'd been there to witness it: himself and Rick.

But Morty wanted more than that.

He wanted to run his fingertips along the surprisingly neat lines where Rick opened him up, to remember the feelings involved as he touched those markings. Morty wanted something solid, something real to touch and caress as he lingered within those disturbing moments, recalling the touch of another so deep inside of him that he should've been disgusted by the mere idea of it.

Those thoughts plagued the boy in the yellow shirt, buried deep and unyielding in his memories like a series of cockleburs, digging their tiny little spines in and refusing to let go. They traveled with the teen absolutely everywhere, reminders around every corner, under every paper cut, in the face of every single injury he sustained while on his missions with Rick.

It'd gone too far, this fantasy, gotten out of control and with each day that passed Morty felt more and more like a junkie in need of another fix, another chance to have those clever hands inside of him, working on him, fixing him.

But it wasn't until he started having dreams about it that Morty finally gathered the courage to bring it up to his grandpa.

Nearly three months after the catastrophic incident with the Gromplomites, Morty sat beside his grandpa in the spaceship. Zooming through the dark emptiness of space both males lingered in a rare moment of silence. Their latest adventure hadn't been anything special, just Rick looking for some specific flesh eating weed that he needed for some reason or another and suddenly Morty couldn't hold it in anymore.

He had to know, needed to know how to cope with his feelings, with this need and the only person fucked up enough to ever have a hope of understanding him just so happened to be the one that he was so confused about. The teen was nervous, scared even, scared of Rick's reaction, but he couldn't keep it bottled up anymore, couldn't keep dreaming about his grandfather's hands in the darkest hours of night, couldn't keep waking up covered in sweat with an aching erection and a need for blood smeared over latex.

But he didn't know how to ask, didn't even know how to bring it up and without even having to open his mouth Morty knew that if he tried, he'd instantly become a stuttering mess and that he'd never get it out. With eyes squeezed shut, fingers clenched into fists beside his thighs, Morty wished for twenty seconds, twenty seconds of insane, stupid bravery to just  _ get it out there _ and after prompting and mental countdowns and carefully contemplated openings Morty just opened his mouth and blurted, “Rick, I-I-I need you to cut me open.”

In a fraction of a second the ship was screeching to a halt and Rick was turned around to face him and the old man's features were a sloppy mixture of pure unadulterated surprise and startled alarm, “Come again,  _ Morty? _ ”

And the teen could feel his heart inside his chest, frantically slamming against the bone white cage of his ribs, threatening to splinter under the flood of emotional adrenaline coursing through his system and the teen could feel his lips parting, ready to repeat himself but the words wouldn't come. They were lodged in his throat, heavy with the unpleasant thrill of fear as Rick eyed him, his gaze sharper than the most wicked blade and before he could clam up further, Morty forced them further, nearly choking on his words, “I need you t-to cut me open again. Just like I said, Rick.”

Morty is surprised how smoothly the words come out but that gratefulness is quickly swept aside in favor of lingering underneath Rick's unreadable gaze, “And why would I want to –  _ eeuuuurrrrp _ – want to do that, Morty?”

The boy can feel tears welling up, threatening to spill over and cascade down his cheeks as he hears the slight influx of Rick's tone, the subtle humiliation that's meant just for him as the mad scientist waits for him to respond but in that moment all Morty wanted to do was curl up and hide, to escape the scrutiny of his grandpa's sharp gaze, to be free of his need but the words are already out there, and this is his only chance to follow through but he can't think of what to say and his brain is filled with cobwebs and his hands are trembling, his words soft and shallow, “Because I-I need it, Rick.”

And Rick just scoffs, “Yeah, no Morty. Y-y-you don't know what you want kid --”

But whatever the older man was going to say is cut off because Morty has launched himself forward and his fists are gripping the lapels of Rick's lab coat, eyes wild with desperation, “I don't want it Rick, I need it. I-I-I need your hands, Rick, I need them inside of me, like before. Please Rick, y-y-you gotta help me.”

And just as suddenly as it entered, all the fight went out of Morty. His grip loosened, his hands just barely clinging to the off white lab coat as his head dropped, his forehead pressed against Rick's collarbone and in the depths of space, Morty wept, his saltwater tears soaking through Rick's teal blue shirt but he couldn't be bothered to care. All the boy could think about was this sick, twisted desire inside of him and his shame and the toll it was taking on him and suddenly even more words were spilling from his mouth, uninterrupted.

He told Rick about the first time, about how it felt to watch Rick cut him open and the tug of stubborn shrapnel and how the sight of his own blood against the flimsy material of his grandpa's surgical gloves affected him. He told Rick about his reaction to the spinal incident and the dreams and the  _ desperate need _ to have those hands back inside of him, touching him, caressing him from the inside out, to have Rick speaking to him in that soft gentle voice, telling him how good he is, to feel the tug of his skin being stitched back together.

And when it was over, when all the words were out there in the open, floating around the inside of the ship between them, Morty had stopped crying. The raw nature of his emotion was now dry, his tear stained face feeling more like half cracked pottery than human skin, and Rick was just sitting there, motionless, surprisingly silent.

There were no jeers, no emotional barbs or hurtful words, no mocking tone or scoffed declarations. There was only stilled silence between them, an absence of sound or response until, finally, after what felt like an eternity, Rick wrapped his long arms around his grandson and held him close.

And in that instant, as Rick cupped the back of his head and simply held him, the broken teen in the yellow shirt felt his entire universe tilt on an axis. Rick of c-137, who was one of the more evil, judgemental Ricks, who constantly put him in danger and laughed at his misery and mocked his hesitance was holding him with all the compassion he'd expect from his mother. Rick, who everyone always claimed cared about nobody but himself, whose moral compass was much looser than it should've been, who made a snarky joke out of every possible situation, was comforting him and if he'd had any tears left, Morty was positive that he would've wept.

“We -- we’re gonna get through this, Morty.” The words were spoken quietly, in that soft little tone that Morty loved but all too soon, the older man was pulling away, sliding out of his seat and rummaging around the back of the ship. 

Soft brown eyes watched with mild curiosity as Rick searched through the various panels within the ship, mumbling quietly under his breath until the old man apparently found whatever he was looking for. Morty was about to ask but the words died on his tongue as he watched the sleek metal table take shape. It wasn’t like a surgical table, wasn’t meant to turn to and fro, shifting around for convenience. 

It was a mortician’s slab. 

Cold and unforgiving with deep grooves along the sides and the bottom to catch any liquids that managed to escape. It wasn’t a place where lives were meant to be saved, it was a place to deal with the aftermath, and Morty couldn’t be any more eager to lay on it. 

“C-c’mere, Morty.” 

With barely a single thought, the partially stunned brunette unbuckled his seatbelt and slid from his position, approaching Rick with the sort of hesitance one found in a stray cat that’d gotten its tailed pulled one too many times. His eyes were wide, more reminiscent of a deer caught in the headlights than a boy faced with his desires as they locked on the sleek metal. It was so alien, and yet something drew the boy to it, made him ache to be spread open and guttled like a fish upon its surface. So it was no surprise to the needy teen that, without having to be prompted or told, he found himself stripped out of his shirt and climbing up onto the chilly metal surface. A dramatic shiver went down Morty’s spine as the metal made contact with his skin, a scatter of goosebumps peppering his skin and as the boy turned to look at Rick, he could’ve sworn that his heart stopped. 

Rick’s signature lab coat was draped carefully over the driver’s seat, his blue undershirt and wife beater tanktop nowhere to be found. It was just Rick, hands free of latex, holding a syringe full of silvery mercurial liquid in his grasp, clad only in in his dark brown trousers. 

“Rick?” 

The teen’s voice cracked, making him appear smaller than he really was and in the face of that, the dark haired boy could see his grandfather’s face soften, “D-don’t you -- don’t you worry Morty. I-I-I -- Grandpa’s going to take real good care of you.” 

Any remaining hesitance fell away with those words and Morty relaxed against the warming surface, his eyes fluttering closed for the briefest moment, only to snap open when Rick jabbed him in the thigh with the needle. Shocked pain flowed heavily through his veins, making the boy want to choke on his own surprise before a startling wave of near numbness swept over his nerves, making the teen’s head lull to the side in obvious sedation. 

“Wow, y-y-you really got t-the good stuff, Rick” 

The mad scientist scoffed, causing Morty to smile, “Of course I do, Morty. What? Y-y-you think that I’m just gonna settle -- gonna buy the --  _ errruuuuup _ \-- the shitty stuff? Why -- why would I want that, Mort? Huh? What good is shitty pain killers, Morty?”

The familiar banter made the teen grin dopily from his position on the table, his brain heavy, feeling more like it was stuffed with straw or wool than anything usable as he rolled his head to gaze up at Rick.

“Just be grateful that I’m using -- that I’m using this stuff on you Morty. It’s spendy, Mort. Real spendy, and here I am, using it on you for -- just for kicks.”

But just as soon as the relaxed atmosphere appeared, it retreated behind a look of seriousness as Rick held up a shiny silver scalpel, holding it up to the light for inspection before turning back to his grandson, “Alright, Mort, take a -- take a deep breath for me.” 

Morty did as he was told, drawing oxygen into his lungs with a bit of labored effort only to feel a deep and sudden burst of pressure. It was shocking, not painful in any sense, but Morty knew without a doubt that Rick had made the first incision. 

Hesitant eyes darted down to look, a glassy sheen making the teen appear even more doped up as he watched the red life water pour from the curved entry, his skin splitting open with the ease of a perfectly ripened tomato feeling the kiss of a blade. It was beautiful in a way, to watch Rick part his flesh, to watch as his mentor peeled him open layer by layer but it was the details that made it all worthwhile. The subtle sight of his blood gathering beneath Rick’s fingernails, the sticky redness of Rick’s bare skin as the elder worked without the barrier of latex between them, the way his flesh seemed to swallow Rick’s fingers whole as he prodded around. 

But that was nothing compared to the thrill that went through the boy as Rick slid his hand unobstructed into the wound. 

There was nothing but the sensation of those clever fingers being somewhere that they shouldn’t be. There was no discomfort from the chill of air exposure, no quick building desperation as Rick sought to save his life. There was only calm, a slow exploration as Rick glided his bare fingers along the curve of one of Morty’s ribs, making the teen tremble. 

It was incredible, how he could feel everything and yet nothing at all. There was no pain, not a single whisper of what it should’ve felt like to have somebody poking around his insides, and yet Morty could feel the tiniest brushes against stringy muscle tissue, against solid and unyielding bone. 

“Ready, Mort?” 

Unfocused eyes settled on Rick’s face, watching the carefully concealed fascination play across his grandfather’s features, “Ready for what, Rick?” 

Rather than answer his question, Morty felt movement within, a sharp gasp tearing from between his lips as the older man spread his ribs slightly, making his chest uncomfortably tight and then his hand was slipping past the bars of his bone cage to settle within. 

Rick seemed to be watching, his eyes carefully trained to Morty’s face but the teen was almost completely unaware. His pulse was thundering in his ears, making almost impossible to focus on anything else as Morty quickly began drowning in the sensations. 

The initial opening was tight around Rick’s forearm, drops of sticky carmine dripping from the skin of both their bodies onto the sleek table and within, surround by his own flesh and blood, Morty could feel Rick’s pulse. He could feel the mirrored thundering of Rick’s own heartbeat beneath his paper thin skin but then, when Morty thought that it could get no better, he felt Rick’s fingers around his hammering heart. 

They weren’t constricting, not seeking to harm him in any way, just fitting loosely around the beating organ. WIth each thump of his heart, as the walls opened up to pass blood through, he could feel the slick brushes of Rick’s fingers. Five digits that literally held Morty’s life in their palm, in Rick’s grasp, but there was no pain, only startling arousal. 

Morty wanted to be embarrassed, wanted to hide his growing erection but the medication flooding his system made it nearly impossible to care. And Morty could tell the second that Rick realized what was happening to him because, in an instant, Rick’s fingers were no longer lingering idly outside of his heart. Dexterous fingers caressed the pulsing walls of his cardiac muscle, brushing along the valves, sliding in further to caress the expanse of one of his lungs before returning to the organ of his original interest. 

With every slam of his heart, blood is rushing to Morty’s groin, making him slightly light headed with the unexpected shift and then Rick is there, murmuring quietly in his ear, telling Morty what a good boy he’s being, of how proud his grandpa is, encouraging him to keep still and to keep going. It’s everything the teen’s fantasized about, down to the very last detail, but what Morty didn’t count on was Rick being affected. 

Calculating eyes normally closed off behind the haze of alcohol practically glowed above him as the genius watched Morty’s every reaction, cataloging every shiver, each soft gasp as he continued to explore and suddenly Rick was pulling his hand free, leaving Morty wanting to whimper with need, aching and aroused beyond all doubt or denial. 

“Stay -- stay still, Morty. Be a good boy for grandpa.” 

And then Rick is freeing him of his pants, not caring for a single second that he’s ruining Morty’s pants or that he’s smearing blood all over clean pale flesh. His focus is entirely focused on the desperate body in front of him and Morty is panting, his chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths as he lays exposed in every possible way before the eyes of the most insensitive man in the entire universe. 

But there’s nowhere he’d rather be. 

Because Morty knows that Rick won’t hurt him, won’t belittle him, won’t tell him just how sick and twisted he really is for needing this. 

And Morty wants to beg, wants to hurry Rick along but before he can even think to open his mouth and speak, Rick’s dripping red fingers are wrapped around his cock. There isn’t a moment’s hesitation. There’s only the shock of slick heat and then his mad scientist grandfather is sliding his other hand back inside of Morty’s body, capturing his heart and feeling the muscle flutter and slam as Rick slides his fist up and down Morty’s aching length.

Part of the teen is amazed that he’s able to feel pleasure at all, but any rational thought is quickly driven away as Rick starts adding in a little twist to his strokes, all the while telling Morty what a filthy boy he is. The dark haired boy wants to squirm, wants to thrust his hips up towards the tight fist that isn’t stroking him fast enough but the hand on his heart reminds the teen of who is in control, who sets the pace and controls the actions between them. 

It’s all too much and not nearly enough. 

Morty’s heart is pounding harder and faster than it ever has before, aided with every beat by Rick’s hands and when the teen thought he could take no more, Rick is suddenly swooping down, squeezing his fingers around the base of Morty’s cock as he slides the majority of his companion’s cock into his hot, wet mouth. The tongue that rips people to shreds with the realities of the universe is torturous, dragging up and down the length of the brunette’s shaft, tracing the veins with a practiced art, lapping up every single drop of blood that he’d used to stroke Morty off. 

It’s Heaven and Hell, all forms of right, wrong and indifferent all twisted into one and Morty is taut as a guitar string, dangling right at the edge, driven further and further with every slick brush of Rick’s fingers against his beating heart and then it happens. 

Rick’s fist closes around his heart, delaying the organ by a single beat, throwing the entire rhythm off only to gave a sudden and, undeniably, startling squeeze, kicking it back into overdrive and Morty is cumming with a broken cry of Rick’s name. 

Even through the doped up haze in his mind, Morty can feel his vocal chords tense as he screams within the enclosed space only to have the sound be swallowed up by the silent vacuum of space. His hips are driving up, forcing his cock as deeply into Rick’s eager mouth as he can possibly get and for the briefest second, Morty wonders if he’s about to die. His heart feels like it’s going to explode any second, but it doesn’t. 

As Rick pulls away, his lips slicked red, the white of his grandson’s cum dribbling from the corner of his mouth, Morty’s heart somehow begins to slow, his eyelids drooping as exhaustion starts to take hold. He begins to realize just how tightly wound he’s been, how long it’s been since he had a good night’s sleep and the utter  _ relief  _ he feels now that his dark need has been satisfied. 

Morty watches with hooded eyes as Rick slides his hand from Morty’s body, fingers wet and dripping with blood. The teen shamelessly enjoys the sight of Rick all but ripping himself free of his trousers, wrapping his own fist around his cock and thrusting his hips forward, groaning as he uses his grandson’s blood as lube. It’s striking, the dark color that his blue pubic hair becomes when combined with the dark vermillion liquid but before he can take the time to really enjoy it, RIck is spilling into his own fist with a long drawn out groan, his shoulders slumping slightly as he continued to pump himself with small, shallow strokes. 

His limbs are heavy, heavy with the aftermath of his pleasure and the cocktail of drugs keeping the pain at bay and the tired waves crashing into him with every passing second but with the last of his strength, Morty reaches out and ensnares his grandfather’s wrist, pulling his soiled finger’s up to the teen’s mouth. Soft and sensual, Morty’s slick pink tongue darts out from between his lips to lap almost shyly at Rick’s fingertips before the boy becomes bold, sucking each digit into his mouth one at a time. 

He tastes the musky bitterness of Rick’s release and the metallic twang of blood and the salty sweat of his lover’s skin and Morty knows that he’s opened a door that can never be closed, that his need will never disappear but as he looks up into the lust blown eyes of his companion, Morty decides that, maybe, he won’t need scars as a reminder after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the lovely Cinnnister on Tumblr.


End file.
